


The Longest Con

by gaialux



Category: Lost
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, F/M, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-island. Sawyer is a con man. Sleek, intelligent, and oh so handsome. Able to woo women out of their money with just one night in his heaven. Only, sometimes, this leads Sawyer to be a little too arrogant. A little too trusting. Some people aren't as naive as Sawyer gives them credit for. And this could be deadly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sawyer The Con Man

It had become a script. A repetition Sawyer learnt as a child only to remerge and be used when he took the name of its source. After saying it so many times, repeating it without thought, he could let his mind fade and ignore what came from his mouth. If he couldn’t do that, it wouldn’t have been nearly so easy to keep screwing people over.

“You’ll have your money back, a week from tomorrow, _tripled_.” 

While he said the flimsy words which could convince anyone to lay down their money, Sawyer’s eyes swept the house. It was a huge; white walls, and frilly accessories adorning every table. Sometimes he’d though about purchasing something – actually _buying_ it – instead of just renting out of sketchy landlords. Not that it’d look like this. No woman’s touch to exploit something that could actually look good – and make him the big bucks.

“And what if that doesn’t happen?” The woman’s husband spoke, of course. Only happy marriages could afford something this grand. Happy, crumbling marriages. He didn’t take joy in what he did.

“You have my cell number, and my case of cash right here.” He patted the briefcase filled with false paper notes. “I’m staying at the Four Seasons, everythin’ is gonna work out fine.” Two lies for the price of one sentence!

His eyes settled back on the woman – Maria was this one’s name – and Sawyer gave her a wink while her husband was staring, hard, at the briefcase on the coffee table in front of them. Inside he believed it held over a hundred and fifty grand. The paper was worth maybe five bucks. Maria smiled back at him, a blush rising in her cheeks. They fell so easily, all of them. It was pathetic.

Sawyer waited for the husband’s to do what they always did. Clear his throat, graze his fingers over the leather briefcase, and finally stand to try and loom over Sawyer. He figured it gave them some sense of strength and control over the situation. After a while, it just forced Sawyer to stifle a smirk when faced with it.

He stood and clasped hands with the husband. “Great to do business with you, see you again in three days – you’re about to be one lucky man Mr. Robins.” He added in a false grin for good measure, trailing it from the husband down to Maria.

She was pretty, he supposed. But, then again, they all were. That was the genius of it; Sawyer could fulfil their dreams of lust renewed and promise to triple their fortunes in the process. He could give them a better house, more manicures, and personal toy boy. These pretty women got by on their looks, and it lulled them into a sense of controlling men. Sawyer just worked to overcome it.

“I’ll see you out,” Maria said, jumping from the couch once the handshake had concluded.

Sawyer followed her from the room, knowing what would come next when they reached the door. Always strategically placed doors in these homes, hidden behind a pillar or half-wall. Did every architect having a cheating wife? A cheating mother? Maybe it was subconscious, but Sawyer noted it down.

“Will I be seeing you again before the three days are up?” Maria asked.

Her arm wound around his neck and she flicked her fingers through his hair. Stained red lips were dangerously close to his own but, as was his usual, the moment the con was fulfilled his desire for these women faltered into near nothingness.

“I’ll be sure to call you,” he said to her instead, flashing a smile and grazing his lips across her neck.

He was out the door and making a beeline to his car less than a second later. With the briefcase containing the spendable 320,000 bucks, his next stop was Gordy to hand over half of it. Sometimes he hated having a partner, but he tried to swallow the bitterness of it every time he drove toward the shoddy bar which doubled as their clubhouse. As Gordy was often to remind Sawyer, if it weren’t for him, he would have no con career in the first place.

The more he heard the words the more he started to believe him, but there were still mountains of doubt. He’d met Gordy during his first stint in prison (Sawyer didn’t care to memorise just how often he’d been in the big house in one way or another after that), a southern boy like him and that was enough to cement something akin to a friendship almost at first meeting. Within time, they’d both learnt the other was in for petty theft and, as they say, the rest was history.

Only it wasn’t history. It was the present. Sawyer was stuck with the son of a bitch no matter how many times he considered up and running.

Stuck in bitter thoughts, it didn’t take Sawyer long to reach the bar. It was out of the way and anyone visiting for the first time would need to keep their eyes glued to all the side roads that verged on and off the highway, but Sawyer was here at least monthly. He had no doubt he could drive to the dive in his sleep. Outside, Gordy’s pickup was already parked, covered in dust with the numberplates strategically smudged with the mud Sawyer knew wasn’t really mud. Gordy was mixture of a southern boy and a petty con through and through. Maybe that was why Sawyer stayed. It was just a little pathetic.

He parked his own car and shut off the engine, eyes flickering from the bar to the suitcase and back again for several seconds. Last chance, Sawyer. Run to Mexico if you have to, find yourself a Latino babe and settle down. With an audible sigh, one hand grasped the briefcase while the other unlatched the car door in unison. He hadn’t left the first time the thought entered his mind, and he wasn’t about skip dodge now.

Inside the gloomy atmosphere there was only the bartender and Gordy himself, spinning a pool cue around as he looked over the table. He didn’t catch sight of Sawyer immediately, instead he lined up a shot and flung the white ball into the edge of the table. It connected with nothing else. Gordy swore under his breath and Sawyer took it has the chance to mosey on up to the platform.

Gordy looked up at him. No emotion even crossed over his face before he started talking monotonously. “You’re late, Sawyer. Been waitin’ up in these parts a few days now. Told me you’d been done by Wednesday. You mind tellin’ me the day of the week?”

“Accordin’ to that calendar over yonder, it’d be Friday,” Sawyer said, throwing the briefcase onto the pool table. Balls scattered, and one even planted. “Will you look at that? Wasn’ even tryin’.”

Gordy’s hands came down, hard, on top of Sawyer’s. He suppressed the pain and instead replaced it with a smirk. “I got your damn money if that’s what you’re worryin’ ‘bout.” Sawyer yanked his fingers out from Gordy’s grasp and took a step back, eyes projecting poison.

He watched Gordy unlock the case and throw it open. Sawyer saw his eyes light up when he viewed the green speckled paper. Money. It was Gordy’s fix, not that it was particularly abnormal; wasn’t cash the one thing that made people do crazy things? Lie, cheat, steal...murder? Sawyer only knew too well.

Gordy started piling the money up on the pool table. Sawyer lashed out, pressing his hand against the notes and bringing his face in close to Gordy’s own. “Whatcha think you’re doin’?” he demanded, eyes wide with anger, “Out here in the open? Want someone to steal the cash?”

Gordy just gave him a short laugh. “Right. Bartender over there knows all the comin’s and goin’s of this place. Compared to some of the people comin’ through ‘ere, we got nothin’ Sawyer. Nothin’ worthy of stealin’, anyway.” He pushed Sawyer’s arm away and started stacking the money again.

Sawyer just stared at him, the poison in his eyes returning. He watched as Gordy made piles out of the money, hands moving lightning quick over the paper. One, two, three, four, five. Five eventual piles stacked, teetering, over green felt. Gordy pressed two together, bundled them in his hands, before handing them over to Sawyer.

“What’s this?” Sawyer asked, not taking the wads. His eyes stayed glue to the other three.

“You’re share, partner.” Gordy gave him a coy smile. “It’d be more, but ya kept me waitin’.”

Not even thinking straight, Sawyer’s hand whipped out to collide with Gordy’s neck. He should have thought twice about attempting to shake the money out of a man who had spent time in the state big house, as opposed to most of Sawyer’s government repent being spent up in the federal parlour.

In less time than it had taken Sawyer to extend his hand, he was flung across the pool table, money notes dancing around his face. He jumped to his feet, prepared to use whatever moves he’d learnt in jail and the streets if the need came. Admittedly, it wasn’t much. Sawyer was a white collar crim. He hoped Gordy didn’t know enough about his past to know that was as far as Sawyer’s criminal career went.

Nothing came of it, because next thing he knew, a shotgun was pointed between his legs. Even from a distance it was enough to make him freeze.

“Youse boys are free to be drinkin’, playin’ pool, and doin’ business here provided youse don’t cause a ruckus. Am I gonna be needin’ this gun out just for insurance?”

Gordy spoke. “Nope, no need.” From the corner of his eye he watched Gordy begin to catch the still-falling money. “We be cleanin’ up.”

The man nodded and lowered the gun. “Good to hear.” Like nothing had happened the gun disappeared from sight and the man went back to cleaning glasses.

Sawyer finally breathed and let his heart start beating again. He freed himself from the fighter stance, almost certain the bartender would come good on his words if punches started flying, and watched Gordy relocate and restack the money. Just like before, he made five bundles, and, just like before, he handed only two to Sawyer.

“Take it or leave it, _James_.”

Sawyer’s lip curled at the use of the name. Not in this business, not in this world. In a place like this the name didn’t fit, and he hated the way it echoed off the tattered wooden walls and ratty posters covering it, the way it sunk into the stained cement, and the way it floated around the musky air. For a moment he seriously considered taking his chances with the shotgun.

Then Gordy was piling the cash back into the briefcase and snapping it closed. “Until nex’ time, partner.”

He was out the door before Sawyer had even recovered from the shock of hearing his other name. In frustration, he kicked at the leg of the pool table. “Fuck!” The word was released as a mixture of pain, anger and frustration.

“Think you best be leavin’” the man behind the bar said.

Sawyer’s narrowed eyes flew to the old man. His mouth twitched in the debate of whether or not the man’s gun had been an empty threat, especially since Gordy was now gone and it was just a one-on-one situation. Deciding not to take any more chances on his body today – his foot already beginning to throb and likely swell – he snatched up what remaining money he could and limped from bar.

...

Why had he been so _stupid_ as to kick the damn solid wood with his _right_ foot? Driving was a bitch, having taught himself to completely ignore the left foot after almost totalling his car in a chase from the police. Now he’d have to throw all those safety lessons out the window. Or grit through the pain.

Of course he chose the latter, and let loose a string of curses all the way back to his apartment. At least it was better than trying to teach an old dog new tricks. He was beyond learning new tricks, in any aspect of his life.

He kept driving, letting his mind wander to try and avoid the pain. It felt as though it was throbbing less, but maybe that was just because his body was adapting. That was one skill he still held onto; he taught the leopard to change its spots.

All the old Hollywood movies Sawyer had watched as kid told him con deals take place at night. Told him they happened under the shadows of a huge mansion owned by a mob boss in either Italy or New York City. Now Sawyer was driving down a main road in the south as the sun blazed down on his car, causing him to squint at every second turn.

Even before...even before _it_ happened...Sawyer had found an interest in the lives of the famous (albeit fiction) con men, those men who were capable of pulling off grand heists. The likes of Al Pacino, Robert de Niro, and Steve McQueen; smart, intelligent, suave men who could manipulate people and come out on top. For Sawye,r it was something he could engross himself in back when the happy family dynamic still existed.

When the family dynamic shattered, so did the fantasy. Who knew that what he originally found joy in would one day lead him into a life of self-loathing?

He stopped his car outside the apartment and pushed his money under the passenger seat. In all the goings on back at the bar he’d forgotten to take the briefcase, which was _his_ and had cost him his (rightful!) share of the first con he and Gordy had pulled. Now, with _less_ than the rightful share, it didn’t look like he would be eating this week.

He pushed the car door open with all his strength and slammed it shut with just as much. Today was just not his day. And it was about to get worse. As he walked up the cracking sidewalk, weeds spilling over and grasping at his ankles, he soon spotted a white piece of paper taped to his door. Picking up his pace, Sawyer tore it down. He recognised what it was as soon as it was in his hands. An eviction notice. The cherry on top of the shitty day cake. He scrunched the paper in his hands and pulled it until he heard the ripping. The door which he reached out was, sure enough, locked. Everything was just becoming worse and worse.

“Hey, Rob!” he yelled as he ran up the stairs of the apartment block, making way to his landlord’s apartment and banging on the door. He may or may not have heard Rob yell out a “Comin’ ya bastard,” but Sawyer’s pounding on the door drowned him out.

When the door started open Sawyer flattened his palm against the wood and sent it flying into the room, a deafening bang accompanying it’s collision with the wall. “What the hell is this?” He demanded, holding up the crinkled, torn paper.

“An eviction notice, Sawyer,” Rob said, tightening the robe he had on. Rob always seemed to try and emulate the Hugh Hefner look with robes, sleeked back hair, and a tobacco pipe rolling around his fingers. However living in a building complex tended to ruin the charade. “You haven’ paid for two months. I’m sick of it, want ya out.”

“I explained that to you,” Sawyer snarled, keeping his hands on the door in case the man decided to shut him out, “Had some financial difficulties – my sister, she was in hospital.” Already made a life of lies, why not keep using them to build himself a new life?

“Not my problem, Sawyer. Get in your car, and leave.”

“Come on, man,” Sawyer said, lowering his voice. He leant in closer, tried to position his face to make Rob feel sorry for him. He didn’t care if the old man thought him pathetic. He needed this place. “I got the money in my car right now, will pay you for the last months and chuck in this month’s early.” He definitely wouldn’t be eating this week.

Rob leaned in closer. “Good, you can pay for the back of your rent – won’t have to get the cops on ya ass. Then leave, get outta my sight.”

Sawyer’s eyes crinkled in confusion. “What? Rob, man, you can’t do that.”

“Oh, but I _can_ ,” he said, his voice a patronising whisper, “Get the money, then fuck off.”

Sawyer stepped back, and stared at Rob. He had made this apartment complex his home for the last eight or so months, often paying late when Gordy fucked him over with the deals, but Rob had always been accommodating – pissed off, sure, but he still let Sawyer stay. The look on Rob’s face now told Sawyer that might have been a thing of the past.

Sawyer sighed. “Can I at least go in and get my stuff?”

Rob didn’t even miss a beat. “Get me my money, and you can have five minutes alone with her.” His face cracked into a smile.

“Fine,” Sawyer responded, and released his hold on the door with force, watching Rob stumble forward and getting a sort of sick satisfaction from it. He’d liked Rob when he first started renting from him, now he knew he was just like every other person. Money, money, money. It was all that mattered in the world.

When Sawyer reached his car he yanked it open with as much force as he had previously, and took out a bundle of cash, counting out just enough money to make Rob let him inside, and not a dollar more. The man didn’t deserve a tip for his crap hospitality.

Sawyer returned to the door where Rob was still standing in the robe, his pipe had now made it to his mouth where he puffed out short, grey clouds of tobacco. Sawyer shoved the cash into his hand. No words were shared between them, just a smile from Rob as he jangled a key in front of Sawyer’s face.

“That’ll open ya new locks. Get ya crap and be out in ten minutes or I call the cops and say someone’s breakin’ in.” He took the pipe from his mouth and blew smoke in Sawyer’s direction.

Sawyer just shot him a lethal look and headed down the stairs to what was once his apartment, opening the door and hoping he broke it in the process. He was sure the nine-hundred monthly rent of this place was a rip off – Rob would have money lying around and the capacities to pay for repairs.

He stepped inside and set to work collecting the possessions he had obtained over the years. Living life as a con who travelled around the lower states meant you packed light and packed smart. Within the ten minute time frame Rob had allowed him, Sawyer had found an empty box and filled it with the little clothing, portable furniture, limited bathroom supplies, and kitchen elements he owned. All that was left in the room was his battered old recliner and tiny television set. They wouldn’t fit in the car. He guessed more money would be going down the drain with their replacements.

Make it not eating for a _month_.

The only other thing still there, apart from the fixtures he didn’t own, was a huge poster of the USA. Markers had crossed out three states – the three states he’d explored in as many months. Finding a pen in his pocket he crossed out a fourth, North Carolina. Now that he was being kicked out of the apartment it seemed reasonable to believe it was also time for him to get kicked out of the state.

If he spent too long in the same place, cops became suspicious. The women and their husbands who he ripped off started growing edgy after a week past; within a month he was reported and knew he was a wanted man. Even made it in the top most wanted of the FBI once, a fact that made him proud.

Of course there was still the sticky decision of whether or not to tell Gordy of his plans. Maybe this was what the whole day had been leading up into preparation for – letting him decide whether to run or stay, put up with shit or go with freedom, live in ratty apartments or start saving up money for something better.

Ha. Who was he kidding with the last option? He’d never settle down, not until he found the real Sawyer. The man he was willing to search the entire United States for. That was the reason he ran, more than his obsession for freedom or money.

A thought then occurred to him; he still had to find the next place to visit. Would he continue with his short, state-by-state basis or try something better? A marathon of states? Around the world in eighty days!

He turned back to his cardboard box of possessions and rummaged through it until he found the object of his intent. One of the very few sharp knives he owned came into contact with his hand. Without a second thought, he threw it at the map. There it landed, stabbed into New York. Looked like a marathon it was.


	2. Relocation

He didn’t take Gordy with him. He also didn’t take his car. The second pissed him off more than the first, especially since he was almost certain he knew the dealer had ripped him off by a couple of thousand bucks. Of course he knew, Sawyer made a life out of knowing what was and wasn’t a con. At least he had some talent.

With more money in his pocket – a total of four-hundred-and-twenty-eight thousand by his intense calculations – at least his escape would be cushy. Or so he had expected at the time. His expectations had sorely not come to fruition when he found himself with a thumb stuck out on the side of the highway.

Surprisingly enough, he only walked a couple of mile before a car in the distance started to slow. It was a dusty, muddy pickup truck and, for a split second, Sawyer was almost certain it was Gordy’s. His fears were alleviated when the truck was a rusty red instead of Gordy’s black.

“Now just gotta keep my luck and not get stuck with squealin’ like a pig,” he muttered under his breath as the dust the cars wheels had kicked up settled.

“Where ya goin’?” The driver who stuck his head out the window sported an oil-company cat and twisted a toothpick in between his mouth during the words.

“Far as you can take me,” Sawyer replied, opening the passenger door and throwing his two duffels in – one had replaced his cardboard box and the other was bursting at the seams with his cash.

That last line was something he repeated at least half a dozen times over the next week, and that duffel bag of cash became flatter with each passing day. He tried to keep moving throughout the day and into the night, but was too wary to attempt sleep while in the cab of a dingy vehicle which trusted hitchhikers. Instead, he was forced to waste his cash at sleazy rent-by-the-hour motel rooms and try and sleep to a background of moans and creaking beds.

In the period of seven days, Sawyer figured he got maybe an hour of solid sleep. It didn’t even surprise him to see dark circles, pasty skin, stringy hair, and a lengthening beard when he went into a truck stop bathroom and looked in the mirror.

Funnily enough, he looked no worse than anyone else he had encountered over the past days. It also echoed his original con man look. Of course he made no money from keeping up that fashion style – a few women who may or may not have considered him their pimp, a couple of cons with truck drivers, a handful of pool and dart hustles – just enough to keep him clothed and fed.

He’d grown up from that life and hated feeling like he was tumbling back toward it.

Furiously he scrubbed at his face, in a delusion that plain water and the strength of his hands could change his straggled look completely, it didn’t work of course. When he looked back in the mirror he still resembled the zombie, this time with the addition of wet hair and water droplets falling from his face.

“Son of a bitch!” He slammed his open palm against the mirror, causing it to shake. At least it didn’t shatter, he didn’t need police on his trail if the gas station attendant was particularly anal retentive.

Sawyer didn’t know why he was so angry. It wasn’t like he’d made a plan beforehand that had somehow become ruined. He was travelling on his own out here, jumping from car to truck and back again, waiting to hit the Virginia border and scour the prey – and the original predator. The pack of the lion herd known as con men. Only this time Sawyer wasn’t a cub, he was ready to take over the role as head of the pride.

“I’m comin’ Mr. Sawyer,” he murmured to the mirror, a smirk rising to his lips and the anger now replaced with the knowledge of what was to come next.

His hand found its way to his pocket where he pulled out that old, forever creased letter with its yellowing corners and ruined envelope. He didn’t even need to read the letter anymore, the words were encased in his memory and he doubted they would leave for as long as he lived.

Everything just came down to Mr. Sawyer. Every word, every thought, every action, every memory. Every part of Sawyer since he was eight years old.

Sawyer stared at himself in the mirror a moment longer with the letter still in his hand, raising it up so he could see the backwards words reflected in the glass. Backwards he could read them. The words were more his identity than James Ford would ever be. With a sigh he left the bathroom and shoved the letter back in his pocket, leaving more scars on the mixture of paper and ink.

Outside the sunlight hit him and he squinted back in pain. Being inside tinted cars and murky bathrooms had led him to forget the interference of natural elements. Half-blinded with white he guessed his way back to the car which had already taken him ten miles. Then he stopped, suddenly he was very aware of other footsteps coming toward him. He whirled around.

With the glare still affecting his eyes, Sawyer couldn’t make out what he was looking at, but there were shadows on the sandy ground. He blinked, hard, and the glare started to dissipate enough for him to see it was people. One holding something metallic by the way its body bounced a glare in the sun.

Oh shit.

“You should prol’ly be learnin’ to hide your money better ‘round here.” Sawyer’s eyes moved upwards to the holder of the gun. He could mostly make him out now, not that that his face looked familiar; tight crew cut and a lengthening beard. Next to him was a man who looked almost the same, but had considerably less weight around the belt. That one didn’t hold a gun.

“What you talkin’ ‘bout?” Sawyer took a step closer to the pair and clenched his hands harder around the handles of his duffels.

“Uh-uh,” Gun Man said, waving his namesake toward Sawyer. “Give us the bag, and this goes back in my pants.”

Sawyer supressed his fear that the man would do just as he suggested, and stepped forward again. He pushed the duffel not containing the money forward. “You want this? Just filled with clothes – might not be the right fit for you, Tommy Boy.”

The gun jutted to Sawyer’s other bag. “Want the money in that one.” His voice was stoic, monotone.

It was then he noticed the other’s zip had slipped down and you could make out the green Benjamin Franklin’s poking through. He swallowed and kept his voice normal. He turned to the twiggy man who had yet to speak a word. “What about you, Richard? Clothes might fit you.”

He still didn’t speak and waited for the guy with the gun to make an answer. “Both can buy our own clothes, with a bit of that cash you carryin’.” He raised the gun and took a step toward Sawyer. Sawyer held his ground. “Give us the money – you walk away without a hole in your head.”

“Can’t be doin’ that,” Sawyer replied. A small step forward. Keep Tommy Boy interested in what he was saying while Sawyer himself kept moving slowly forward. All he had to do was grab the gun and he was in control. He had no desire to _shoot_ these two idiots, but at least he could make the threat. Then he’d take his bags and leave this goddamn truck stop in a rear view mirror.

“Man’s got a gun to you, think you can make an exception.” The guy stepped forward. This was too easy; Sawyer didn’t even have to make the movements himself.

Still, he felt cocky enough to make a venture towards that shiny barrel. “Yeah? Well I think different.”

Another step. Sawyer had to will his eyes away from the gun least the guy learn his plan. “Last chance.” The gun shook in front of Sawyer’s face. “Give us the bag.”

More than anything it would have been stupidity which kept Sawyer from listening to the men, handing off the cash, and carrying on his way. Actually, scratch stupidity – it was downright pride. It was _his_ money (irony, oh sweet irony – but he pushed that down) and he was going to keep it.

He’d willingly die to keep his pride.

Knowing there was no other way to keep playing this out – Tommy Boy didn’t look nearly confident enough to be waving a gun around – Sawyer made his decision to move. Mentally he counted to three, and then he jumped. Hand connected with metal and skin, yanking until he couldn’t feel the skin anymore. He had the gun, easy. Went to raise it and then all that surrounded him was laughter.

“I got a gun to you, what the fuck you laughin’ at?” He demanded. Surrounded by crazy men, that’s what this was.

The next words came within gasps of breath and hysterical laughter. “It’s a fake, man. It’s a fake gun!”

He didn’t listen. “Sure feels real.” Without even really thinking, Sawyer aimed the gun between the two men and fired. Apart from a bang, nothing happened. Blanks. Fucking blanks! At first anger rose in him, but then logistics settled and he realised it didn’t really matter; he’d only taken the gun in the first place as defence. He dropped it to the ground. “Well guess I best be goin’, gentlemen.”

Rule one of prison; never turn your back on anyone who could be an asshole. Sawyer broke the rule – and he paid.

White hot pain spread across the back of his head and blackness invaded his eyes in a dance of spots and television static. He breathed out harsh and back in, willing himself to not go down. The spots slowed and he gained control of his body again. With a turn he figured these guys didn’t look that tough, just lucky – but there were two of them. Sawyer didn’t have enough time to consider the best course of action.

He lunged and connected with one of them – wasn’t sure which, probably the skinnier guy – bringing them both to the ground before punches started. He was an idiot, emotions of anger taking over the rational thought he _really_ needed. Next thing he knew there was pain again.

Then he was out.

...

When Sawyer woke up, it was amongst dust, dirt, spit, and blood. He groaned, rolling onto his back and staring into the sky. The sun had now fallen behind a cloud and at least it was cool. He relished in that and tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his jaw and head. Closed his eyes and felt close to sleep.

At first he was willing to let it happen, until his mother’s voice, for whatever reason, came to his mind. _“The doctor said you can’t sleep, James, not yet. That’s what you get for gettin’ into fights with the other boys.”_ He forced his eyes open as her voice continued. _“You don’t know your own anger, but you gotta learn to control it. You’re a smart boy, James – use that for good.”_

Another groan and he slowly moved to a sitting position, the events of earlier that day – what time was it? – slowly playing out as a movie montage in his mind. Mr. Sawyer’s letter (he felt in his pocket to make sure it remained), two guys, fake gun, mugging...the mugging. He shot the rest of the way up, wincing at the way it twisted his back. 

Off to the distance he saw a black bag and looked around for the other. Nothing. The rest of the ground was empty but for dust and that pile of blood, and the entire atmosphere held an eerie quality of silence. He stood – too quickly, blood rushed up and he felt like he was either going to pass out again or throw up. Probably both, knowing his luck. Stumbling steps took him over to the bag and he fell to his knees before ripping the zip open. Clothes, a map, three knives. No...No...Fuck no.

He was back to the start.

...

It was another three days before Sawyer found respite. It was respite in the way of a blue sign alerting him of the state border. Sawyer was finally in Virginia. About time; with his own car it would have taken three hours – tops. He had to push the hindsight and regrets from his mind and instead focus on the positives. He was one state closer to his marathon goal.

His ride of choice for this momentous occasion was a truck carrying electrical equipment, manned by a guy who introduced himself only as Chip. They hadn’t spoken a word since Sawyer got in the cab, and that suited him just fine. Being lost in his thoughts also wasn’t a preference but, when faced with two evils, he’d rather swallow the barrel of the thought gun. At least he could mentally yell at himself without being ditched on the side of a highway.

Sawyer turned to look out the window, wincing because he was still bruised the colour of plum, and watched the traffic pass. From this angle up above the cars he could see right into their windows. Women applying lipstick while driving with their knees, kids bouncing around without seatbelts, and men dressed in suits shouting on cell phones. You could tell a lot about the person by the way they kept their car: the lipstick woman had energy drinks spilt everywhere, obviously a gym junkie; the kids in the car had manicured front seats and trashed back seats, out of sight out of mind from dear ol’ ma and pa; the businessman threw stale coffee cups everywhere, a chance for him to be a messy slob before changing face in the office.

The cars flew by, drowned by Chip’s truck horn as he ploughed through the traffic which parted for him like a woman’s legs for the right pickup line. Sawyer was glad it was a truck he gained the attention of rather than another family sedan; it might have been another day for him to reach the outer city of Virginia where he wanted to start his new life. Two weeks was his plan, if all went well. Pull off a few cons with the fresh, unsuspecting women of this one before moving onto the next town. Look up Mr. Sawyer on top of that, of course; always look up Mr. Sawyer. These were his life’s plans.

Cheap, drunken plans set by him while thrusts, moans, and screams came through the paper thin walls to the next room. “Will you shut up?” He’d yelled the first half a dozen times, then just learned to tune it out and channel his angry energy into something else. He chose writing and reading, solaces from a young age when he first picked up _Of Mice and Men_ and had since read it over three dozen times. It now took top prize as his favourite.

He saw it as a good luck omen when, on a rare trip back to Alabama, the local library was selling their old or worn out books. Having nothing better to do with his time, Sawyer had skimmed through them, finding a dog-eared, partially coffee stained copy of the novel in the ‘to throw away pile’. Took it for free, read it six times already in the past year.

It replaced the copy he’d lost in Tennessee. The state where everything went to hell.

Trapped in those memories he unzipped the duffel on his lap and pulled out that dog-eared book, opening it from memory to the part he had last read. Most of the time he didn’t even absorb himself in the world, just read over the words at face value and concentrated on the words so his mind didn’t have to drift. He escaped with it.

“Good book, that.” The first words Chip had said since: “You goin’ this way?”

Sawyer rolled the cigarette to the corner of his mouth in order to answer. “Sure is, Hoss.”

“I’m stoppin’ just off the highway, good enough?”

Sawyer nodded and kept his eyes on the book. “Fine by me.” He only wanted to avoid being shredded by cars on the highway, so long as that happened he was fine with walking through the rest of the state unassisted. Start at the start, end at the end. Simple.

He felt the truck veer into an adjacent lane and speed up now there was no extra traffic to hold Chip back. Sawyer shut his book and placed it back in the duffel, pulling out a packet of smokes instead and swapping to a new one. Back in North Carolina he’d started quitting, down to a packet a day, but after stepping (well, _driving_ ) over the border he changed his mind. Chain-smoking Sawyer was back in action. He lit the cigarette.

“Those things’ll kill ya,” Chip cut in.

“So will crashin’ a big truck,” Sawyer replied, deciding to have some common courtesy anyway and blew his smoke out the open window.

“I’m a good driver.” 

“And I’m a good smoker,” Sawyer said with a smirk.

As if to prove his point about his driving ability, Chip swung the truck out left – leaving Sawyer gripping to the handle – before hooking it back to the middle of the road.

“I believe ya!” Sawyer said, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal. They were rising up above the main highway now and a look down from the cabin showed you that falling from the barrier was not going to end well. 

Chip looked over with a toothy grin, showing uncharacteristically pearly white teeth in the process. Sawyer just gave him a hard stare before training his eyes back ahead of them. He hoped they were moving off the highway soon, Chip wasn’t quite as relaxing as his original thought process led him to believe.

Sawyer’s desire came to fruition within the next quarter of an hour, signified by the abundance of trees. He let out an inward sigh. Looked like things would start moving forward, his new life was finally going to start.

Another look out the side window showed him that his appearance was no better (probably worse, if he were to be completely honest) than it had been in the truck stop bathroom, but he didn’t feel so bad about it anymore. As soon as he got out of this truck his first stop was to buy a razor. As much as he liked what the stubble gave him, a beard wasn’t his greatest look. Then he was going to sleep. For a week.

“What’s ya plans?” Chip asked, veering again. Now he was just showing off. At least they’d left the highway and would only roll into woodland – or homes.

“In Virginia?” Sawyer asked.

“Yeah.”

He shrugged and flicked his cigarette out the window. “Look around, see if I like it enough to stay.”

“Nice state, I come by here a couple times a month. Got myself a girl.” he said. Sawyer knew he saw a wedding ring on the guy. Did _everybody_ have marriages ready for a con man to just grab a hold of and shake?

“I know, been here before.” Albeit it had been close to ten years by now, but Sawyer never forgot a place. Settings indented themselves in his mind, and he knew that getting lost in any southern state of the USA was of no issue. He could walk back to his goal.

Chip turned once more, this time at a slower pace and Sawyer saw an obnoxious neon light above a building. Another truck stop, this one by the name of _Jack Rabbit_. Great, a fifties truck stop – these were always interesting. The truck stopped with a jolt.

“Good to be ridin’ with you, Mr. Sawyer.” Chip extended his hand, but Sawyer stayed stoic.

“It’s just Sawyer.” Only then did he clasp hands with Chip. “Thanks for the ride.”

Sawyer collected his remaining duffel, possessions of his whole life, before opening the cabin door and jumping from it. Probably not a smart move, his foot still hadn’t improved from the frustrations he took out on it over a week ago nor had his head stopped aching from the concussion. Still, he gritted his teeth and went with it. There was no time to deal with pain; he needed food, a razor, and a bed. He went in search of just that.

...

Food, check. Razor, check (he ran a hand over his face to feel nothing more than prickly stubble and a few little bumps from the mugging). Bed, check (he was laying on it right now). The only problem with all three was the cost. On top of what he’d spent – or lost – during his hitchhiking experience, Sawyer was slowly dwindling down his supply. Five hundred dollars sat in the wallet in his pocket. As stupid as he was at that truck stop back in North Carolina, at least he was smart enough to keep a grand tucked away in his other bag. Though it didn’t go far, not nearly as far as he had predicted at first. Then again, nor had his predictions of a week-long act of hibernation.

His next plan, the only one he could think of, was to go back to his old roots. Usually he liked to get a feel of the town – look for Mr. Sawyer first – but this time he would have to make an exception. Tonight, he hoped. Find a lady, woo the lady, then let her simmer for a few days. Return, give her one night of heaven on earth, then do his rouse. Only problem was he needed the money, and a briefcase.

The briefcase would be easy; actually, he’d go looking for one soon. The real problem was the money, but a plan for that was slowly simmering in his mind. One time, in one of those old heist movies, he’d watched a guy do the briefcase rouse with limited cash. Got plain paper, cut it to size with cash and bundle it. Stick a hundred (or, as Sawyer was planning, a fifty) dollar bill on the front. At a distance, it could work. Well, at least it did in Hollywood. That was good enough for Sawyer – it had to be.

With something a cross between a groan and a sigh, Sawyer lunged from the creaky double bed and stood. After this con, he was renting five-star all the way. He had a suit and the required intellect, and that was enough to be worthy of it...right? No point breaking the rules if you can’t have fun doing it.

Straightening up the halfway decent clothes he’d changed into, Sawyer checked out his appearance briefly in the mirror. He still had yellowing of his skin from the bruises and the dark circles under his eyes had yet to let up, but he looked better. If someone asked, he’d express himself as a successful businessman lacking sleep from a huge project. Yeah, might as well talk himself up.

He pocketed the motel key and remaining cash and left the room. He’d deliberately chosen this motel – The Maddison Motel, room fifteen – because of its close proximity to shops and the nightclub scene. Without a car he needed all the walking help he could get. Actually, that was the third part of his plan – at least rent a quality car to help him play the part of businessman.

It was still hot, even though the sun had since dropped beyond the horizon. He didn’t hurry to the CBD, knowing there’d be no more sleep when he returned and he had the patience of a kid, but did keep up a pace. Wary now of somebody jumping out of the shadows and taking his remaining cash. One on one he was confident, but not if two or three guys jumped out, and that money was all he had left. Even losing fifty bucks would be a disaster and cause his entire plan to crumble.

And, this time, he had no plan B.

It took less time than expected to walk into the heart of the shopping district. Even with the sun down business was still booming, and he had to dodge women with prams, kids running wild, and couples walking hand in hand. He felt overdressed in what looked like a family-based town and hoped that didn’t draw attention. He really didn’t need anyone remembering his face if he was reported for fraud in the local papers or news channel.

He continued to dodge the miscellaneous people he almost collided with along the entire sidewalk before finding the store which may have held what he wanted. At least he figured, what with the suits and leather cases in the window – he just hoped there was some fake leather or suede in there which _looked_ convincing. He couldn’t afford the best stuff.

He walked in and slowed his pace as he looked over the suits. He really needed a new one, his current was fading from cheap detergent and becoming thin from overwear. At one point he had a new suit for everyday of the week, but Gordy screwed him over enough he’d had to sell them just for consignment money. On the plus side, it made travelling just that much easier. He didn’t spend too much at the suits, however, just enough to not look strange rushing through a store. He soon made it to his real destination – leather goods.

“Can I help you?” A lithe voice came from behind Sawyer and he turned to see a young woman in a tight blue and white outfit, likely her uniform, standing behind him.

He flashed her a grin. “Just lookin’ for a new briefcase, sweetheart.”

She returned his smile with her light pink lips and ran matching coloured nails on a selection of the leather cases. “Any particular colour interest?”

“Standard black,” he replied, hand following just behind her to take in the cases.

She stopped at one and held it up. “Your typical case, either to fit in all your important papers, or –“ she seemed to look him up and down before continuing “– look like you have them, anyway.”

Her eyes narrowed just that little bit. “What are you suggestin’?” He tried to keep any tone of accusation or paranoia from his voice, but it was hard.

“Nothing, sorry.” She sounded sincere, especially when a blush rose to her cheeks in accompaniment. Sawyer just had to stop being so damn touchy.

“Nothin’ of it, sugarpop.” To prove his point he tried another smile. “I’ll take that one.”

Bad move. He had to learn not to mix business with pleasure – at least in the case of shopping with next to no money. He followed the woman up to the counter and paid the two-hundred dollars required of him, hiding the hard swallow that he was forced to make when learning of the price. Maybe he’d have to change the fake money plan to twenty dollar bills. He was so screwed.

Rather than take out his building anger or the people who were now slowing their shopping habits, he picked up the pace back to the motel. There was nothing he could do about it – he’d needed the case sooner or later and, as he rationed, it was cheaper than his old one at least.

By the time he returned to the motel it was completely dark out. He fumbled with the room key as he stood under a broken light, blatantly disregarding anyone who might not have been interested in the string of curses he let forth in the process, before finally letting himself in. He switched on the light, and it hardly let him see around the room.

“This is just great...” he murmured across the room, “Spent all the money, got nothin’ left. Great, just great.” He kicked the bedside table with a yell of, “Son of a bitch!” soon after. Same foot, same injury level. In response his hand shot out and took down the contents of the table – a lamp went flying and shattered to the ground, and _Of Mice and Men_ was left splayed on the bed.

He left it, because it’s the only way he could deal with the anger; cleaning up would just make it worse. Instead he went for his second best clothes, changed into them, and left in search of a high class bar and women.


End file.
